


Heavy and Steady

by Lucifuge5



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:05:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucifuge5/pseuds/Lucifuge5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe Dick and Billy Tallent get closer while tripping acid in Bucky's farm. Mostly Joe's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavy and Steady

**Author's Note:**

> Knife licking + Joe wearing black eyeliner = GROWL!! I kept thinking about all things that (most definitely imho) happened that night in Bucky Haight's farm but were not shown in the film. Next thing you know, this fic happens. Mind you, this story is totally unbetaed. Apologies for any and all mistakes.

They are in one of the upstairs rooms. Acid is cursing through everyone's veins. Reality has begun to bend. Late afternoon sunlight floods the space with a burnt orange glow. John, Bruce and Joe the sound guy are non-stop giggling while trying on lots of mismatched clothing. Joe can't remember when was it that he had stripped out of his own clothes and into the vinyl ensemble. Something about the slick material and how he feels naked but is clothed really appealed to his altered state of mind. Billy is looking quite fetching in spite of the red (is that velvet?) pants, a 70s pink tuxedo shirt and the shiniest gold jacket he has seen this side of Las Vegas. He has glitter all over his face. Thankfully, Joe muses, he is nowhere near the level of ridiculousness everyone else has achieved (other than Bucky who looks like himself despite the clown face) with their tinsel wigs, lack of pants, and overall drag-queeny looks.

There is a box full of theatrical grade make up on the table in front of him. He quickly decides he is not in the mood for any kind of extreme war paint. Had John been sober, Joe is pretty sure he would have swiped more than just the one pot of white clown face cream he pocketed before leaving the room. Maybe a jar of glitter or two. John was a harlequin in a past life...

Joe drops to his knees in front of a mirror and gets around smearing some black eyeliner with as much grace as he can muster. He sees Billy slowly walk over to where he is kneeling, take the cowboy hat off Joe's head and place it on his own. If Joe closes his eyes, he can still feel the ghost touch of Billy's fingers on his ears. He is almost sure Billy has kissed his head after whispering "we could fuck like the lost boys we are" before walking away.

**********

The night is just beginning, the sun went down less than an hour ago, but there is that peculiar disenchantment growing inside again. He is thinking of the end,** his **end while staring at the gun he usually keeps in the hidden pocket of his coat at all times. A flash (from the future?) comes forth in his mind: he is blowing his brains out in some no name city. He can smell the blood and hear far-away screams. His mouth is bitter with the taste of gunpowder. Whatever it is that lies within him, what other people would call their heart, starts to ache because he knows things have a way of falling apart. Billy will leave the band. Actual fame and the promise of real coin are luring him away with more than vague promises. Billy's no fan of false modesty. He knows what a talented guitar player he is. His fingers can take all the manic joy Joe feels when he's on stage and magnify it a thousand fold with just the right chord. Those Jenifur twats don't know how goddamn lucky they are. He spits.

His fingers curl around the trigger. What kind of afterlife is there for a punk bastard with enough anger and pain to light up a small city? It would be so easy to let go...and that is when he sees it...Billy's tongue languidly sliding upwards on the knife. Every inch of his skin emanates furious heat despite the goose bumps. He puts the gun away. Fuck it, Death can fucking wait because right now he craves that cherry and wet and ever so naughty tongue all over his body; he needs to feel Billy writhing under him as they fuck each other into a complete state of ecstasy. It is absolutely stupid to piss around feeling morose now that he can _reclaim_ what is rightfully his.

Bucky, looking like an infernal master of ceremonies in a deranged circus, says he is communing with the fire; he is all scarecrow come to life. Naomi is mimicking him while chanting in her own made-up language. John keeps talking about some damn goat, Joe the sound guy is standing still but smiling at the microphone, Bruce, Danny the camera man and Pipe are...dancing the can-can? Joe shakes his head after standing up. Should have known Bucky's stash would take them as far out in the universe as possible. He spits and centers himself before he begins to head towards Billy. He licks his lips, anticipating how it will go down, because Joe knows a signal when he sees one.

Billy is standing against a haystack in that ludicrous lounge singer outfit, his right knee bent and his foot on the hay. Those very talented fingers of his strum up and down the guitar strings with practiced ease. The gold lame jacket has been discarded to the floor. He sees Joe, places the guitar down with excessive gentleness, and tips the cowboy hat upwards. His cigarette, already halfway burnt, lights up bright orange a few times. Eyes with pupils so dilated they are nearly black. His face shimmers. They both know what's to come, but Billy won't be the first one to give in. _The little cunt can be a real asshole when he puts his mind_ _to __it._ Joe keeps walking in Billy's direction all the while smirking as he thinks of the many ways he can make the wiry man come: with his mouth, _his teeth_, the exact type of nasty dirty talk that makes Billy toes' curl, a couple of well-placed and well-timed _slaps_. He grows hard.

"You look like a savage, fuckface," Billy remarks with a half-smile, exhaling, the very tip of his tongue peeking out.

He is a dragon, but I'm a chameleon.

"Bet you are thinking about all kinds of exciting situations, aren't you, Billiam?" he says as he takes the cigarette out of Billy's mouth, inhales a long drag and flicks it away. "You are my bitch and you know it," he just about purrs as he presses his body against the blond man.

"Is that a fact or are you trying to unsuccessfully talk yourself out of worshiping my cock?"

"Fucker."

"Pot," he says while pointing at Joe, "meet kett-" Billy's mouth is silenced with a kiss from Joe. Almost immediately, his own lips part and their tongues get to explore each other's mouths. His heart starts beating so fast he thinks he might stroke out if Joe doesn't stop. He doesn't want to stop. The world is spinning. He loves Joe, he hates Joe. Everything, nothing and a slow burn in the middle. That's the way it has always been between them since that summer nearly 22 years ago. Right now, he is craving more than kisses, he wishes to see Joe black and blue and sated because spilled blood means a good time went down and the promise of many more to come.

"Fuck, I...(_fucking love you_)...you miserable bastard," Joe hisses as Billy places his lips on that spot right on the vein in his neck and begins to flick his tongue before he switches to sucking. Billy's stubble scratches the extremely sensitive skin and he loves every second of it. Joe wishes they could be naked already at the same time he tries to hold on for one more second. He just can't...Soon enough they'll be on the grass. He'll be wildly grinding **_into_** Billy, making this blond fiend moan his name and curse at him as he teases the pale back with bites timed with every thrust. Or Billy will have a mouthful of Joe and use all of his_ other_ talents to tease him until he can't take it anymore. Or he will be inhaling Billy's musk while wondering where his gag reflex went. Or Billy's fingers will be inside him, brushing against that very alert **_spot,_** making him feel more alive than he has ever been. Or they will be on their backs, maybe holding hands, their sweaty bodies a random map of bruises, as they smoke cigarettes before round number _trois_.

His Billiam's mouth taste of nicotine and berries. Billy's hands snake underneath his t-shirt, callused fingers slide up and down his back slowly enough to happily torment him. His own hands are pulling on the blond spikes. Billy grunts.

In the end, Joe wants it rough and (fuck, yeah) he wants it almost-tender and he wants everything tonight. He wants Billy in all manner of depraved ways but ultimately he needs to pour all of his feelings into this moment. Together. Alone. Because, yeah, he might be a coked-up, fucked-up absolute punk brute, but he is also madly, absolutely forever-and-then-some in love with Billy. And they have all the time in the world.  



End file.
